Storm Chaser
by Paperdoll
Summary: Life's too short to waste time pretending to be someone you're not.


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the storyline. And possibly Magic Boxä televisions.

A/N: I've finally ventured into the exciting world of Draco/Harry slash! Technically I should be writing the French essay, German essay and English lit essay that were all due at various intervals during the past week, but, stuff it. I'm happier writing this.

****

Storm Chaser

He's out of my league.

There was no question of that. And yet, in another way, I'm out of his too.

As The Boy Who Lived, I could have almost any girl, or guy for that matter, who takes my fancy. But not him. Not the one I want.

It's always the way, isn't it? It's in human nature to want what we can't have. Never to be happy with our lot. To constantly strive to achieve more and more.

Storm chasers. Have you ever heard of them? People who spend their lives chasing tornados around the deserted plains of America, always trying to find a more spectacular one to film, always trying to get closer. The bigger, the better. The best tornados are cold, cruel, and dangerously magnetic.

If Draco had been a tornado, he would have been the best.

Now that it is his and my seventh year, most of the school are storm chasers to Draco's tornado. He has an energy about him that makes you want to be close to him. On the outside we go about our normal lives, but on the inside we trail him like helpless puppies, fascinated by his awe inspiring magnificence, his cold charm and effortless cruelty. Despite our feigned indifference, even hatred, we all secretly hope to be sucked into his swirling vortex and carried along on his madly exciting path of destruction.

Most are just in it for the thrill of the hunt, and the exhilaration if they ever manage to catch him. I suppose there's also the danger element. The strange, dark quality he exudes. Few ever do catch him. And when they do, it never lasts long.

Perhaps part of his attraction is that he doesn't know how beautiful he is. People always assume that Draco Malfoy would be arrogant and priggish, with only too much confidence in his own worth. But he isn't like that; he seems almost confused by all the attention he gets.

As a Malfoy, he should have been poised, calm, cold, and self-assured, and to most, that's how he appears. But I have been watching him since we were eleven years old and I can see past it. You just have to know when and where to look.

Just occasionally, if you catch him off guard, his eyes betray him and, once in a while, it shows in his smile as well. In that moment, you can see the real Draco Malfoy.

It took me a few years to understand what that expression meant. It's almost as though he's…laughing at us. Laughing at the world and everyone in it for believing he is who he makes himself out to be, and for being so self contained, boring and stupid as we go about our everyday lives. He seems to know that he is different, is destined for higher things. He sets himself apart, and rightfully so, from the rest of us. It isn't exactly arrogance, he just…knows.

I'm quite sure he sees me as being part of the very masses he so despised. He doesn't know that only I can see right down inside him.

My infatuation runs so deeply that there is one experience I treasure the memory of almost above all others, right down to every little word of conversation, every nuance of smell and taste. The memory of the day he kissed me.

It was late one night last summer, a few weeks before we broke up for the holidays. The 17th June 1997 to be precise. The semi final match of the Quidditch World Cup between England and Peru had run on longer than expected, and most of Gryffindor house had crowded quietly into our dormitory after lights out to watch it on Seamus's portable Magic Boxä wizard television. During a break taken to tend to a nasty chaser crash, I was nominated to sneak downstairs and wheedle some food out of the house-elves.

Taking my invisibility cloak, but not bothering with the Marauder's Map as I knew the way so well by that time, I made it to the kitchens without a hitch, and, gathering as much food as I could carry, I pulled the cloak back over myself and slipped back out into the corridor.

Pleased with myself, and concentrating on getting back to the dorm before the match started up again, I must have been paying less attention than usual to where I was going. I went up a staircase, down a corridor, round a corner, and walked smack into Draco, who was headed the other way.

"Who's that?" he asked, looking startled, as anyone would who has just crashed into nothing, and reaching out gingerly in front of him. I took a tentative step backwards, and trod on the hem of my cloak, which pulled away from my face, then off entirely.

"Potter," he spat, recovering his composure remarkably quickly. "But who else could I expect to find sneaking round the exciting world of Hogwarts by night on some little do-good adventure?"

"You," I pointed out. "Perhaps not the do-good part, but you're definitely sneaking around at night."

"My business is my own," he said peevishly. Then he smiled, like a snake smiles, wary and cunning, and, out of the blue, he pushed me back against the wall and kissed me, violently, passionately.

It should have been a shock, but somehow it was just so natural that I sank into it. He tasted fiery, not cold as I would have expected, and so uniquely of himself that it's impossible to describe. It's amazing how soft another boy's lips can be.

And as we kissed, his body pressed against mine in that deserted, shadowy corridor, a strange electricity passed between us. Something stronger than the magic we use so regularly around here. Something pure and intense and so incredibly right that it frightened me.

I think it frightened him too, although he'd never admit it, because he pulled away then and looked at me, his face so close to my own. He was so beautiful that night, with his hair slightly ruffled and his silvery eyes glowing as though from some wonderful internal light.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not so innocent as to expect everything to lead from then until we lived happily ever after. Yet, somehow I didn't expect him to able to be quite as harsh as he was, knowing that he had experienced what I just had. But that's just Draco. Always so unpredictable.

"You're a pathetic bastard Potter," he drawled calmly, his words stinging my ears. "You've spent the last six years hating me, but all I have to do is kiss you for you to surrender yourself to me utterly."

I knew it was hurting him too. You can believe I'm deluding myself if you want to, but I knew. It was in his eyes, the only part of himself that he does not have complete control over.

He walked away then. Quickly and silently down the corridor. I felt somehow empty.

"Malfoy," I called after him. He stopped, but did not look back. "Life's too short to try to be someone you're not."

He nodded once, glancing back briefly. They say you can see a person's true character in their expression when they look at you over their shoulder. I don't believe that because his expression was one of regret, and of fear. To my knowledge, he has never looked like that before. He carried on walking, and I watched him until he was out of sight.

Then I went back to my dormitory, to carry on with my life.

***

Since that night, I have not spoken to him except to exchange the usual barrage of insults. Even those are stilted, but we must keep up appearances. I have seen him look at me, when he thinks no one is looking; a torn, longing look, as I give him when his back is turned, though never to his face.

We have a magic together, and no one can take that away from us. I love him, though I don't know why. By rights, I should hate him as I pretend to, but I cannot, and now I know that neither can he.

It must be hard for him; having to choose between himself, and his family. That Malfoy family loyalty that has been pounded into him since the day he was born. I know that one day he'll decide, but until that day, I must leave him alone. He must make the decision that is right for him, not influenced by me or anyone else.

But despite all my good intentions, I can't help hoping he'll chose to follow his own dreams, not his father's. If he does, then he will be mine, and I, his. I know that, and I see that he knows it too. 

Only then will I have reached the eye of the storm, where all is calm, and all is beautiful.

Then and only then will I be happy.


End file.
